Gods and Monsters
by Imogen74
Summary: An interpretation, beginning with A Scandal in Belgravia, with alternating points of view between Sherlock and Molly, of the series. (HoB will not be dealt with as Molly is not in it) Mostly behind the scenes stuff. Each chapter will focus on two characteristics, one bad, one better of the characters. Some angst, some fluff, some humor. Sherlolly. RATING HAS CHANGED TO M.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Sherlock (penitent and cruel)

She looked at herself in the glass. The dress was black, form fitting, sparkly. Her hair was down mostly, pulled up at the sides with a festive bow. And then...the lipstick. Red, generously applied. Molly's mind wandered to the invitation she had received from John. It had been verbal, in passing.

* * *

"So...we're having a small get together, Molly. You know, for the holiday. Some wine...nothing big. It'd be lovely if you could come."

She had smiled. "That's nice, thanks John," she paused. "Do you think...do you think Sherlock would mind if I went?"

"Mind? I should hope not!" He laughed. "Nothing fancy. Be there about 6-ish, then?"

She nodded. "Right. Thanks."

* * *

She smiled at the recollection. She ran her fingers through her hair. Molly had thought that this was likely the first time Sherlock had ever seen her in something nice. Something not from work, or overly casual on the one or two occasions she had seen him outside of the lab. While he had been there countless times over the past few years, she had always been in a lab coat. She wished to make a favourable impression. She wanted him to notice her body, always so hidden in the lab.

Her crush was distracting. He was often aloof. Moody. Changeful and abrupt. Yet she had noticed recently, he had begun to confide in her somewhat. He had complained to her about John leaving for the holiday. Mrs. Hudson was often beleaguered with pain. His violin needed tending, he was too busy to see to it. John's many girlfriends were tiresome, and he wished he would just pick one already so he didn't need to constantly pick them apart and recall things about them. Like their name.

* * *

He had begun to treat her like a friend of sorts. She enjoyed the attention. She loved to listen to his voice. She sympathised with his tendency toward solitude, but understood his need for a few close friends. She thought they were alike. She thought they had grown close as of late. She thought, maybe, he had begun to reciprocate her feelings, which grew stronger by the day.

Molly thought that he only needed a push. Her dress, her makeup, there would be no mistaking her intent. She was going to give Sherlock the signal that she was very much interested...and not in merely a "I think you're cute, let's have coffee" way. No. She wanted more now, and this evening would demonstrate how very much more she wanted.

She hailed a taxi. Her large bag full of gifts weighed heavily. Though she couldn't say that she was intimately acquainted with the entire group she was about to join, she thought it rude to go empty handed. She brought a tie for Greg, some biscuits in a tin and tea for Mrs. Hudson, a new jumper for John, a bottle of wine for John and his girlfriend (she couldn't recall her name, so John's alone donned the package), and for Sherlock, his favourite cologne complete with shaving cream. She believed it to be appropriate, she had smelled it on him often, and it was suggestive enough without being presumptuous.

* * *

Off she went. Her heart and mind were racing. Though she didn't expect anything specific to occur that evening, she thought there was an outside chance her and Sherlock might meet under the mistletoe.

The note said to come up, so she did. She heard voices, and was glad that she wasn't the first to arrive.

After greeting everyone, she accepted a glass of wine, and began to make small talk.

And then it happened.

With such cruel nonchalance he humiliated her and her efforts to gain his eye. With stinging mockery he casually ripped her apart in public. Her boyfriend! How could he think that? Why?

He took the gift marked with his name to deal the final blow. She hoped his realisation would silence him. She was right.

But she was confounded. "You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always," shaking her head in mortified confusion.

He swallowed, she saw that. His pride wounded, no doubt. "I am sorry. Forgive me." He stepped toward her. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," and a kiss on her cheek.

He left soon thereafter, distracted by a rather crude text alert. Molly, too, was called into work, and left the party half an hour after Sherlock retreated to his bedroom.

Her exit couldn't have come soon enough. She had desperately wanted to leave, feeling like she only needed to be alone. With Toby. And some ice cream. And crap telly.

Her plans were thwarted by a call from work - no one can come in. Christmas plans.

Yes. She was alone, no family worth a mention, no friends without family. She heaved a heavy sigh and pulled on a silly Christmas jumper, brushed out her hair without pulling it back, and headed to St. Bart's.

In they waltzed, and Sherlock made mention of her not having to come in.

"Well, everyone had Christmas…" she mumbled. The other man smiled at her.

He asked to see "the rest of her," which made her blush a bit. This woman, this dead woman, had known him intimately. So intimately, indeed, that he knew her naked form. She was confused, he had never mentioned a girlfriend. He had talked to her about many things, but never a girlfriend.

Why would he, though? She pondered as she made her way home. He was clever. He knew she fancied him, she didn't exactly hide it. Why would he talk to her about a girlfriend? Because, she thought, she was his friend. So what if she fancied him? He talked to her about his life! He confided in her about things. He should feel as though he can speak to her.

Molly entered her darkened flat, closed the door behind her, and leaned on the closed door. She felt pathetic. She felt alone. Her chest filled with an oncoming sob, and she swallowed it. Molly's mind was filled with self pity, and she hated herself for it.

"Stop it, Molly. Just stop it," she rubbed her face, turned on the light, and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

* * *

After the four digit code didn't work, he bought her a coffee. He had said that he was indeed, quite sorry for ever having made her feel badly Christmas Eve. It wasn't his intention. That's Ok, she had told him. He had been through a lot…his girlfriend and all. But no, she wasn't his girlfriend, and he left the lab.

Not his girlfriend. Molly smiled to herself. He was cruel. He was brilliant. He was her friend. And he was apologetic to her, something that she had never heard him utter to his closest friend John, despite the stinging vitriol he would sling at him. He apologized, he attended to the (very) basic rules of human interaction, even with the extreme cruelty of his moods.

Ok, she thought. She can almost deal with this.

Almost...except he didn't come into the lab for what seemed a very great while, and she began to think that he had forgotten about her. Well, par for the course. As soon as she thinks that he cares a bit, he pulls away. She would need to tread lightly, his capriciousness may even hinder a friendship without hope of a romance. And if nothing else, if he never wanted anything from her except a friendship, she would be there to offer it.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly (saviour and fatuous)

Though he indeed enjoyed, at least partly, the idea of a formidable opponent, Mycroft had ensured that all would go as planned, and he would only need to complete the plan to ensure the eventual demise of Jim Moriarty.

The things were all set in motion, the wheels of Mycroft's mighty machine turning.

And then it happened.

It should be noted that while he certainly regarded Molly Hooper as a friend, and although he disliked her oft untimely dates, he never regarded his affection for the woman as particularly peculiar. He rather thought her a silly sort, prone to flights of fancy and catty quibbles he couldn't be bothered with. True, he confided in her. Bit more than John, even. Yes...he enjoyed the steady attention her fancy for him afforded. Honestly, who doesn't like pretty female attention? She was an accomplished scientist. A useful ally. A person whom, if he reflected on it, was truly an asset to have as an acquaintance. Yet here she was...rambling as per usual...god knows what she was on about...when she began her dissection.

He was caught off guard, for she spoke in a steady manner, easily understanding that he was concerned about something (though she couldn't say what it was he was worrying over).

"...you look sad, when you think he can't see you."

"You can see me."

"I don't count."

He was sad. Beyond her silly, awkward exterior, Molly had managed to tear away at his armour and notice his hesitation at the prospect of leaving his home and John Watson behind for many months, perhaps even years.

And she thought he didn't care. Well, why would she? He hardly offered her a smile when she gave so much - her generosity seemingly endless. And he took it. Everything that she offered him, over and over, countless times. He had abused her trust, her kindness, her friendship. His throat felt tight as she left the lab, and he forced himself to think about it later. So very much to focus on, pretty pathologists couldn't be one of them.

* * *

That silly, stupid, Kitty person - honestly, who calls themselves Kitty if they wish to be taken seriously - had riled him. He was pacing. John was looking on. He needed something to finalise the web he and his brother concocted. His mind drifted to Molly and Bart's. Yes...he would text Mycroft that that was where the final confrontation would be.

He felt his heart rapidly pounding in his chest, and the surge of adrenaline caused a momentary high as he left John.

"What do you need?" ever the giver, she asked him again.

"You," he said, looking steadily at her.

He saw her swallow. And they set to work. He marvelled at the ease in which she followed his direction. At how deftly her mind acquiesced to the thought of what it was they were doing. She didn't mind. She honestly didn't.

"I may not be back for quite some time," he said as she worked on the cadaver.

"Hmm. Yeah. I know."

"And...Molly..."

She looked up.

"I want to say thank you, for everything you're doing here," he was fiddling with his phone, rolling the ball with the palm of his hand, sitting at the next lab table in the morgue.

"S'okay, Sherlock. You're my friend. I want to help you," and she looked back down at her work. "Haven't got many friends. I'm happy to help the ones I can."

"No," was his reply.

Why didn't she have many friends? She was bright, loyal, charming...well. Maybe not charming. But a bit funny, even deliberately so. And Molly Hooper was lovely. He looked at her with a different eye. Bit like John, except John was outgoing - everyone loved him. But Molly ... Not everyone loved her. So like himself, too. She was like John, and like Sherlock. He considered, as the ball lolled about in his hand, why it was that he never liked her boyfriends. She had had a few; less than John's amount of girlfriends, but a few.

He didn't care for John's girlfriends either, but he chalked that up to two things: one, they were very generally, idiots. Two, they detracted from his attention. Did he desire Molly's attention? Did he value it? He supposed he must. He understood himself to be selfish, and the few people whom he shared his life with should pay him as much attention as they could afford. She tugged at him, though. Her awkwardness. Her intellect. Her smile. How could he account for these ruminations?

* * *

It was an all-nighter.

He was very nearly delirious when John left to see to Mrs. Hudson. He headed for the roof and the moment he had dreaded for weeks now. Exhausted, he stayed in the morgue until the coast was clear. Painfully, he had received word from Mycroft that everything was set to plan, nothing had deviated. The funeral would be in three day's time. Did he have someplace to stay...? He could arrange a place. No. He'd ask Molly. One more favour. And then he'd go to his own funeral (something he imagined most people would do). Two nights with Molly, the last person he cared for who he'd ever see...for god only knows how long.

Of course, was her reply. Though admittedly, she seemed a bit nervous.

She gave him her key, and told him she'd be there in an hour. He was exhausted. He arrived at Molly's flat and didn't bother to change into the clothes that Mycroft had sent. Sitting on the sofa with only a lamp on, he sighed heavily and closed his eyes.

Sherlock awoke to find himself curled in a fetal position with a blanket on him and noises coming from a few feet away. He looked up to discover himself in Molly Hooper's flat. She walked into the sitting room and handed him a cup of coffee.

"Black. Two sugars," and she smiled. He accepted the drink and returned her smile. "I suppose your brother was the person who left all of these things…I didn't know what they were at first, but after a quick look, discovered that they were yours. Clothes, toothbrush, you know…"

"Hmm. Yes. Mycroft is nothing if not thorough."

"Why don't you have a bath? I'll make us some food. You must be hungry."

He took her advice and in a bit, they ate.

"Where will you go?" she asked, later that day.

"Mycroft will send me leads. As of now, I'm going to Berlin. But following that, I have no idea."

Molly looked pensive. "Do you think..perhaps he might let me know when he hears from you? I mean…not always…but every so often? I will worry…'

"John won't even know, Molly."

"I realize that."

He considered. "Yes. Alright. I'll see if he will send you a text on occasion. I cannot promise anything…"

"Oh, I know. But since, you know, I have no idea if you'll be back, or when…"

"I will be back," he said, cutting her off. "I'm not leaving for good. This is for the best."

"Yes, I know," she replied softly.

He knew that she understood. He knew that he meant much to her, given that she was mostly alone. They spent the evening watching Eastenders and silly things that he only half paid attention to. His mind was troubled, he had a long road ahead of him, and would be traveling it in near solitude. Though he was loathe to admit it, he had become accustomed to being around people, and he almost enjoyed it.

Molly's feet were pulled up under her and he watched her move with little grace but much purpose. She rose from her position and began cleaning up the kitchen.

"You can have my bed," she called out. "You slept out here last night and god knows when you'll have a proper bed again."

He got up to watch her normalcy in her tending to chores. He had a sudden urge to go to her, to hold her, to have her hold him back.

"You're going to the funeral tomorrow?" she continued. She heard no reply. "I'm staying, since work thinks I'm ill, and it won't do to be out and about…" "

I'm going," he said, now right behind her. "I'll be leaving as soon as it's over."

"Oh!" she said, whirling around. Molly was startled by his unexpected proximity to her person."Right," she blushed. "Of course…"

He gazed down at her, her eyes darted away at first, but then rested on his own face. He succumbed to the need to pull her close, and his arms wrapped around her as her body formed to his. It had been so long…so very long, since he had enjoyed the sensation of human touch. He was always so uncomfortable, and usually so off-putting, that no one dared to attempt to physically touch him. Molly was warm, her touch was soft and delicate. He sighed deeply, as his face bent toward her hair.

That was when she pulled away. He wasn't expecting that…he rather thought that maybe they could remain thus, at least a minute or so longer.

"Sherlock…I don't think…"

But he didn't want to think. That's all he ever did. All that was on the horizon. He ran his hands through his hair in agitation at her letting him go. And on impulse, he took her face in his hands and pulled it to his own, kissing her wholly on her mouth. She let out a small cry as he did it. His entire body was effected. He leaned into her…feeling her respond as he played her lips apart.

He had kissed many women before. Some of the kisses had been manipulative, some had been passionate, some had been selfish, some had been kind. Most of his experience rather ended with that (though he wasn't, as The Woman had labelled him, a virgin). But no kiss he had ever experienced was anything like this. It felt as though every feeling or want he had ever had suddenly culminated in the kissing of Molly Hooper. His hands moved of their own accord, through her hair, down her back, and up again, until his hands found themselves once more cradling her face.

He stopped. He needed to. He couldn't hurt her any more by suddenly taking her to bed…and that was the first time he thought of her before himself.

He looked at her face as tears welled in her eyes. He swallowed his own sob, fully realizing what it was that he was doing. He was leaving. Leaving his best friend, his landlady, his brother, and his own silly savior. It hit him in that moment, and he knew this would change him.

His breath came out ragged. "Be happy, Molly Hooper. I will think of you while I'm away,' and he went to her bedroom, leaving her alone in her kitchen.

* * *

As he left for the airport, a tear fled his eye. The funeral was meek, but then, he reminded himself, he wasn't dead. His las act before he boarded the plane arranged by Mycroft was a text to said brother:

LET MOLLY KNOW WHEN I LAND.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock (sweet and dilatory)

Forgiveness. That's what Molly's mind centered on. She needed to forgive Sherlock for leaving her two years ago, forgive herself for hating having cared for him, forgive herself for lying to John about it. She did not know when he would return, Mycroft's texts were always so vague. She hadn't heard from him in a few months, which was strange. And good, for Molly Hooper was in love, and she didn't need the distraction of a word from Sherlock's brother.

Tom was a good sort of man. He had a dog. Yes, Molly. He had a dog. And sometimes that was the primary reason she chose to spend time with him. That, and he loved her. He gave her attention. Molly deserved to be happy, as Sherlock had told her.

She hated him when he left her there in her kitchen two years previous. How could he do that? He knew how she felt about him. And he had kissed her. He had kissed her as she had never been kissed before. It was simultaneously erotic, desperate, sweet, tender, and poisonous. Poisonous, yes, for after he pulled away, she saw the shock in his eyes, and knew that he had regretted having done it. All those years having pined for the man, and when he acts, he shrinks away. He didn't want her. But the venom sunk deep, and Molly was thrown into a whirlwind of self loathing and despair. She could never fully escape the feeling of his mouth on hers, his tongue playing with her own in desperation to hang on; hands gliding down her back, fingers through her hair…and her own hands on his neck, rising to his face, down his own back…it was, Molly believed, the single most erotically stimulating experience of her life, and it had only been a kiss.

She thought Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart could have used that kiss as an example of how to say goodbye.

But no…she moved on.

She met Tom. And he was a good sort of dog owner…she smiled to herself. What was it? Insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly but expecting a different result. No matter. It was done. She was engaged. That was that.

* * *

A long day in the morgue almost always yielded a sore neck. Her hand reached up to rub it.

Her sigh was loud as she opened the door to her locker. Open it. Mirror. Face. She whirled around and saw him there, and she could only imagine what her face looked like as she beheld him. She smiled inadvertently.

"Hi, Molly."

"H-hi…Sherlock," she fought the urge to go to him and wrap her arms around him in relief.

"Well, I'm back."

"Back? For good?"

"Far as I know," and he stepped toward her.

She gulped. "Wonderful. Are you alright?"

"I am. Yes."

She giggled. And with that, she went to him and wrapped her arms snugly to him. He buried his face in her hair and rocked a bit. She pulled away.

"Well…going back to Baker Street, then?"

"Yes."

"That's really wonderful, Sherlock. I'm…so happy. It's really great to see you."

"Molly…"

She had been taking off her lab coat.

"I need to run. Got someone waiting."

"Someone?" he sounded confused.

"Yeah…but I'd love to catch up soon."

She left him there, much the way he had left her two years ago: confused, a bit sad, and alone.

* * *

_Molly, Please come to Baker street when convenient. SH_

_Actually, I know that you are off today, so today would be convenient. SH_

_Just come straight up. I'll be waiting. SH_

He was nothing if not persistent. Luckily, Tom worked fairly regular hours, so he wasn't around. She wouldn't lie about seeing Sherlock, but…it's easier if she didn't need to explain before she went.

She went right up as he indicated, and there he was…looking out onto the street below.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes!…Molly…would you…" he cleared his throat.

Molly watched him. Was he…?

"…would you like to…solve crimes?"

"Have dinner?" she spouted out the phrase at the same time as he.

Oh. Solve crimes…no John. He was being so attentive and kind. Well, kind for Sherlock.

With every client he was sincere and gentle. She was genuinely impressed at the deftness of his skill, at the talents which seemingly ranged from detective, counselor, comforter, and comedian. She honestly hadn't been expecting that.

As they made their way to Lestrade's case, her mind drifted back to the way he told her that she needed only to be herself. Be herself. He wanted her to be herself. What a laugh. He thought her to be ridiculous and she knew it.

But it was easy…much easier than she should have imagined, working with him. He worked quickly and with purpose, not wasting time on silly ancillary movement or thought.

Despite this, she needed to know. So when they left the train boy (where they had, incidentally, shared a laugh, and even flirted a bit), she confronted him. "

Sherlock? What was today about?"

"Saying thank you."

Her mind caught. He was thanking her. He was thanking her by spending time with her doing what he knew best. It was a date, for he had just asked her to dinner… A date. It had to be…

Her nerves won in the end, and she rattled on why Tom was great, he had a dog…blast that dog! Did she mention his name?

He told her she deserved to be happy. He kissed her cheek. She deserved to be happy…it sounded like a farewell.

Molly followed him as he left the building, and watched him briefly walk alone down the street. Part of her desperately wanted to follow him. Part of her knew it would only yield heartache, for he left her once. She could leave him, too. And leave him, she did.

Molly went home to an empty flat. An empty refrigerator. An empty cat food bowl. An empty stomach, and a heavy heart. He had been too late. Too late to be kind. And sweet. And everything else that he had been that day to her. He must have heard something in the recesses of his mind that he had mistreated her somehow, and a flicker of understanding must have been borne of his realization, however dilatory this realization had been.

Tom came over that night. He brought chips, and when he asked her why she wasn't eating, she told him she was tired.

* * *

"Of course, John. Yes. I'd love to come…yes…I'll bring him. Can't wait," she turned off her phone.

She was going to Baker Street for drinks to celebrate Mary and John's engagement.

She didn't get too done up, it was to be a quiet affair, and she had thoughts pressing on her mind.

So when she walked in with Tom, she felt a bit frantically joyful. A smile was plastered on her face. It wasn't fake, necessarily, she was pleased to introduce him, but it was forced slightly. It didn't help that Sherlock was giving her the widest grin imaginable as he walked toward her and Tom, or the fact that he looked as though he might be sick when he saw him. She chose to ignore it, for she feared he had it in him to actually get sick if someone bothered him enough.

And she said she moved on. She told Greg. She had.

Theoretically.


	4. Chapter 4

Molly (cheery and wily)

Having lots of sex. She actually said those words. Lots of sex with…Tom.

He pondered as he thought about the results of the research he and Molly conducted. He wasn't certain if she was attempting to make him jealous, if she was being coy, or making some sort of strange attempt at conversation. But no…he had done that. He had made an attempt to converse, and then the sex comment.

He arrived at 221B and flopped himself in the sofa. He thought about the impending stag night and what it meant. He would show John a good time. They would play some games. He would get ready for the wedding.

He thought about Molly and Tom. It was eerie, the resemblance. He dressed like him, for fuck sake! It was beyond ridiculous.

Why? Because, if he were honest, it hurt to see her like that. It hurt to see her with someone. It was a selfish thing to think, to be sure. He couldn't give her what she wanted, so he shouldn't deny her the happiness she desired with someone. Did he care for her? Absolutely. Did he want her romantically? Not entirely certain about that. Did he want her sexually? Mmmm…maybe?

Blasted ramblings of a distracted mind.

He wouldn't bother with it, however. He would leave her be.

* * *

Janine was certainly forthright in her advances, and though he was generally repulsed, he knew her to be of some use, so he played.

His eyes washed over the company as he stood to deliver the speech he was tasked to give. He wanted so badly to catch her eye, had been all day, to see if she was paying attention…if he still held her admiration, even if but little. He didn't think he could tolerate her being done with him altogether.

His speech was a bit on the long side, but he had solved a murder! Surely that counts as a positive. Surely not boring, at any rate. He disliked being gawked at, but he didn't have much choice in the matter; besides, it was John's wish and desire to have him play his composition, give a speech, and he only hoped that the expectations were met.

Sherlock was, admittedly, a bit downtrodden as he left the reception. He had made it to the taxi he had summoned, when he heard a voice call after him.

"Sherlock! Where are you going?"

He smiled. "Home. Been a long day…would you…care to join me, as per tradition?"

Janine smiled and accepted the offer.

She had brought five bottles of wine. Five. What a tremendous bore. Although he was a bit tipsy (not anything like that horrendous stag night), he wasn't passed out on his sofa the way the silly bridesmaid was. He sighed heavily and took a long gulp of the purple liquid. He couldn't stay here. She was ruining the flat.

He scribbled a note and took two bottles. He left without preamble into the night, coat fixed tightly, and walked briskly down Baker Street.

* * *

What was he doing here? He stared at the door he knew with a bit of familiarity. What if that ridiculous Tom person were here? He scanned the evidence. The mat bore no sign of multiple people standing on it recently. The door handle appeared to have but one set of new fingerprints…

It moved…he jumped up from the knob…

"Ouch! Bloody hell!" Molly was rubbing her chin. "Sherlock! What the hell are you dong?!"

He was rubbing the top of his head. Why hadn't he heard her approaching the door? Slip…slip…

She turned and went into the flat for some ice.

He stood there a moment, and followed.

"Entertaining?"

"Sorry?" she handed him some ice wrapped in a tea towel.

"Is that Tom-person here?"

"My fiancee?"

He winced. "Yes…fiancee. Tell me Molly, does he always offer such pithy observations as "meat dagger?" For truly, how could anyone resist a description such as that? I wonder what eloquent turns of phrases he uses to describe his future wife. The mind reels…"

She glared at him a moment. "Why are you here?"

"Janet is at Baker Street." He sat down.

"Sorry. What?"

"Janet. You know…that bridesmaid person…" he waved his hand and took out the bottles.

"I…is she alright?" and Molly sat across from him in the chair.

"Fine. Sleeping off intoxication." He procured a bottle opener from his jacket pocket and opened the some wine. "Have you got any glasses?"

"No. I drink from the bottle or cup my hands depending on how far gone I am," she said, dripping with sarcasm.

Sherlock shrugged and took a swig from the bottle, then handed it to Molly. She rolled her eyes and went to the kitchen. "I think her name is Janine."

"What?"

"Janine. The bridesmaid."

"Tom the poet and Janine the bridesmaid…"

She giggled as she handed him a glass. "Well, just thought you should know the name of the person you so recently bedded." She took her full glass and sat down once more.

"I didn't "bed her" as you so indelicately put. She did, I believe, have that in mind…but she was sufficiently far gone by virtue of my coaxing and she quite conveniently fell asleep," he sat back on the sofa, drinking the wine deeply.

"Oh," and Molly blushed ever so slightly. "So…why are you here?"

He sighed. Didn't he already explain that? "Because SHE is THERE."

"And…?"

"And I can't be there if she is…"

"Oh."

He looked about the room. "Let's play a game…"

* * *

"THAT is NOT a donkey!"

"It most certainly is. Look at the ears!"

"It's a…babbit. A bunny. Rabbit…"

"Where's the tail? Look…" Molly was trying to show him the tail with her pen as a pointing device, when her balance deserted her (despite the fact that she was sitting stationary on the sofa), and she fell, stabbing him in the leg with the pen.

"OW!"

"Oh shit, Sherlock!" And peels of laughter erupted from Molly's mouth. "Oh god…" and she held her stomach…"Oh my god…I'm so sorry!"

He staggered up from the sofa, Molly falling over on the floor.

"That really hurtolly! I need…something…" he stopped. Where was he going?

"There's a lot you need Sherlock…" her laughter had stopped abruptly, the Pictionary game had fallen onto her as she laid on the floor in between the sofa and the table.

"What do you mean?" his brow furrowed.

"Lots and lots…you need to relax. You need to eat more. You need to stop worrying about John leaving you because he's never going to fully leave. You need a good shag. You need to stop smoking…I can smell it on you."

He cleared his throat. Perceptive. He fell back onto the chair once occupied by the inebriated pathologist laying on the floor.

She didn't know about the baby. If she had, her tone would've been different. "I need a good shag?"

"Hmmm," she sat up quickly and smacked the top of her head on the table. "FUCK! Ouch!'

He erupted in laughter. "Oh myMolly!" He went to the kitchen to get some more ice. It had turned into quite a dangerous evening…

"Here."

"Thanks," Molly rubbed the top of her head. "Are you a virgin?"

He looked at her crookedly. "Why?"

"Because…dunno. Just wondering."

"I am not."

"Oh," and she fell back onto the floor. "What were we doing?"

"Playing games."

"We should stop now…I'm rather tired."

A thin smile graced her face, and Sherlock noticed. Rather wily, this Molly. A double entendre, to be sure.

"Yes," he said. "You can't sleep on the floor you know."

"I can. It's my floor."

"You'll regret it in the morning," he got up and began to pick her up from the floor.

"There's plenty I think I'll be regretting in the morning, Sherlock Holmes," she replied as he lifted her. She buried her face in his neck.

He stumbled a bit.

"Don't drop me! I don't want to fall!"

He stopped and looked at her directly. "I'll never let you fall…"

"Golly," she whispered.

He began to carry her to the bedroom. "Did you just say golly?"

"Yes."

"Molly said golly…" he snickered.

"You are a strange person."

He lowered her to the bed. "Yes. I am, I suppose," he felt her breath close to his face, he was so close to her…his nose bumped hers and he looked at her…her eyes bleary from drink…face flushed…and he thought about her fiancee…her promises…the kiss they had shared in her kitchen…how much he had thought about her while he was away (much more than he cared to dwell on)…how he needed her and her smile…so much more than he ever realized. He faltered…he couldn't do this again. But what it was, he couldn't say…he claimed her mouth, but gently…not in the desperate manner he had done before.

"Goodnight, Molly Hooper," and he covered her in a blanket.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock (friend and criminal)

As if through a haze she wandered these last weeks. She could not reconcile the many suggestive things that continued to happen and the Sherlock she had always known.

Janine was staying at his flat semi-regularly, and he claimed he couldn't be there when she occupied it. It was for a case, he told her. He needed to get close to her in order to solve it.

Tom, though skeptical at first, became irate when on the fourth consecutive night the detective showed up at nine p.m. requesting use of Molly's bedroom and quiet so that he could think.

"You can't just barge in, demand that you sleep in my fiance's room, and then hide away in there until morning!"

"Why not." he stated simply.

"Why…get the hell out of here! You don't live here! She doesn't want you here!"

Sherlock looked at Molly. "Is that true? Do you not want me to stay here?"

"I…" Molly was beside herself. She had never seen Tom so angry. Sherlock had never been so vulnerable. Even, she believed, after he Fell, when he was here…and they…"You should go, Sherlock. I think that's best," she looked at her feet. After all, she had made her choice. She wanted to be his friend, but she couldn't keep on in this way. Yes, she believed he he cared for her. She believed Sherlock was desperately confused. He had kissed her, twice now, and that was something, more than something, for him.

But Molly was nothing if not loyal, and no matter what happened, she was engaged. She had moved on. She couldn't wait forever for Sherlock Holmes to grow up and be the good man she knew he was.

"I see," he said, looking directly at her. "I'm sorry…" and with that, he left.

She swallowed. She turned to the table to clear the glasses and such away. Tears threatened, but she would not allow it. She was not weak. Not timid. Not the push over that everyone believed she was.

"Molly."

"Yes?"

"What's wrong?"

She turned to face him. The man she was destined to marry. The man who gave her the ring on her finger. The man who was an idiot. A simpleton. Boring. Unromantic. Not funny. Dull. Dreadfully dull.

She grinned at him, for she knew that she was smarter than him. Her cat was smarter than him. "Nothing, why?"

"You love him."

"Sorry?"

"Sherlock Holmes. You are in love with him."

She turned away to the sink. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do. Look. I cannot marry someone when they are in love with someone else."

She turned back. "What do you know about it? Why would you think that? Haven't I been a good and faithful girlfriend? Haven't we done all of the things people who are marrying do? You don't know anything about me! Anything! You just stand there, looking like…whatever it is that you look like…and…and…make accusations!"

"I look like him. And I know things, Molly Hooper. I know that you are in love with that man, and I know that I can't marry you."

A sob emerged. Fuck. He was right. She knew it. She had admitted it to herself after Sherlock left her years ago that she was in love with him. She tried to forget it. Tried to divorce herself from the thought. And she didn't think about it. But that didn't make it less true.

* * *

She hadn't seen Tom since that night, or Sherlock. She was fine with it. She was tired…so very tired, of everything. She almost didn't care of she died alone with many cats. She almost didn't care if Sherlock Holmes never came back to the morgue, to her flat. Almost.

She felt used. She felt sick. He…always used her.

Molly, it can be said, was not unintelligent. In fact, she was quite bright. She never struggled with understanding. She never fought to comprehend matters of science, of language, of psychology, or anything, really. She understood Sherlock Holmes quite well. For all of his towering intelligence and quickness of mind, he didn't understand himself very well. She knew this. She knew that he was unable to reconcile what was going on in his head regarding her.

While she couldn't claim that he was experiencing romantic feelings for her, she certainly knew that he considered her a good friend. Especially since he had returned. And she knew that the difficulty was borne of his having one good friend already, and for a person who never had good friends, to suddenly have two, was mind altering.

She wondered casually if he had ever kissed John Watson tenderly on the mouth.

* * *

And so, when John informed her that he was bringing Sherlock to the morgue to be tested for drugs use, she nearly spit. Her coffee. All over the place.

In they walked. He looked horrible. Absolutely dreadful. She waited for him to give her the samples, but she almost didn't need to test them.

Positive. Heroin.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

"How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with and how dare you betray the love of your friends. Say you're sorry."

"Sorry your engagement's over, though I'm grateful for the lack of a ring."

"Stop it. Just stop it."

He left to make a call.

The rest cleared out, and Molly began clearing up the lab.

"It's not what you think," he said re-entering the lab.

She didn't bother turning. "I don't think anything."

"It's for a case."

"So you said."

He shuffled his feet. "He broke it off, then?"

"Not your business," still not looking.

"Because of me?"

Now she turned. "Not everything is about you, Sherlock. Grow up. He broke it off because of me. Because of me. Me. Not you."

He didn't respond.

"You've got a lot to learn. You are an idiot. A recovering junkie off and does heroin! What were you thinking?"

"It was for…"

"I don't care!" she stopped. "And neither do you, apparently."

"You don't care, Molly. You left, and so did John,' he was looking down at the floor.

God. He really was a child. "Sherlock, how can you say that? YOU left US. And after everything I have done for you? Everything that John has done…what do you want from me, anyway?"

He looked up. "I haven't the faintest idea," and he left.

* * *

Her text alert went off. Mycroft. Why was Mycroft texting her at 9 o'clock?

_Have you seen Sherlock? M_

_No…not for a few days, anyway. MH_

_Please let me know if he contacts you. M_

There was a thud at her door. She got up from the sofa, having put down the papers with Sherlock's and Janine's pictures plastered all over them. She grabbed a vase, in case an intruder was lurking in the hall.

She opened the door, and Sherlock Holmes fell into her flat.

"What the fuck?!" she yelled.

"You shouldn't yell like that, Molly. There are elderly people in your building who will be offended."

He was kneeling on her floor, holding his side.

"What…? What is going on?" she was helping him up.

"Shot."

"What."

"Been shot."

She helped him onto the sofa. "Shot. Like, with a gun."

"That's right."

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock…" and she went to her kitchen, grabbing towels, vicadin, gauze, tape, and boiled some water.

"Just now?" she said, running back in.

"What?"

"You were shot…just now?"

"No. Two days ago."

She dropped the towels, along with everything else. "Two days ago. Why the hell aren't you in hospital?!" She went to fetch her coat.

His breathing suddenly became labored. "Molly…the bullet is out…I left the hospital…I need…I need to take care of things that I can't take care of there."

"Things."

"Yes."

"Why are you here?"

"Because…I need you…your help."

The kettle screamed. She sighed. He needed so much. "Alright. Ok." She went to get the tea, and brought them both a cup.

Molly sat down next to him with her supplies. "Can you move at all?"

"I'm very tired."

She unbuttoned his shirt, and began to redress his wound. She thought about contacting Mycroft…

"Can I text your brother? He's worried about you…" she said, continuing to work.

"I'll contact him and John in the morning."

She didn't look up. She cut some more tape. Put it on the gauze. Closed his shirt, but didn't re-button it. She handed him the pain meds, and he took it. She never once looked at his face.

"I'll go get the bed ready…" and she stood to go.

She was hindered by a tug at her wrist. She looked, and his hand was wrapped around it. Molly looked up and saw his eyes - they were so sad - looking at her. His hand released her, and went up to her cheek. His finger brushed along side her face.

"I'm sorry, Molly."

"So am I, Sherlock," and she got up…a tear falling from her eye.

He was gone the next morning, a note left saying that he would be in touch.

* * *

That was two weeks ago, and Molly hadn't heard a thing.

The papers were quite vague about this Magnussen fellow she kept reading about. He was dead, they said. Shot in the face.

It was her day off, and she set to scrub the kitchen.

"Your hair looks good up like that."

She turned, alarmed, screaming.

"Sherlock! You're alright…"

"I am, yes."

"Good…I had been worried."

"Well…no need to be any longer," he paused, his eyes shifted.

"Is everything ok?"

He smiled weakly. "Ah…no. Not exactly."

God. She was tired of this. All of this drama. It was never easy with him…always something. "What's wrong?"

He took off his coat. "You read about Magnussen?"

"That fellow who was shot?"

"Yes."

"Yeah…I've seen it. Why?"

"I shot him."

"You…"

"Yep. Yeah…he was an asshole."

Molly's mouth hung agape. A murderer was in her kitchen. She was harboring a criminal.

"You shot him. Why?"

"Because he posed a threat to John and Mary."

"You killed him because he was threatening John and Mary?"

"That's right," and he smiled.

He was, at least, a good friend, she supposed. "Well…what happens now?"

His hands went into his pockets. His face fell. He shuffled his feet.

"Sherlock?"

"i'm being sent away."

"Away?"

"Where? How long?"

"Eastern Europe. And…for a considerable amount of time…I imagine."

"Considerable?"

"Very."

He wasn't coming back. He was here, saying goodbye to her. Again. Fuck.

She sighed. "Well…I guess Mycroft had something to do with this."

He nodded. "Everything. He's such a prat."

"He spared you prison, right?"

"Indeed. Yes."

"Yes." She looked away, turned her back. She really couldn't bear it…she wanted him to leave so that she could cry…she wanted him to stay that she could hold onto him and never let him go…she wanted to punch him and slap him and kick and scream and tell him she loved him and hated him and adored him and loathed him…all of it.

She knew she could never have him…she wasn't even sure that she wanted him anymore. All this…trauma where he was concerned…it was much to deal with.

"I'll miss you, Sherlock," she said, not turning. "I…" she had to tell him. Sure, it was selfish, but so was he. "I love you. And hate you. You're really such a git. But…life is so much more interesting with you…here…and I don't know how I'll ever do without you," and she turned.

Tears were streaming down his face.

"Sherlock…?"

"I'm so sorry, Molly. I'm so sorry…"

"What…?'

He went to her, and pulled her into a hug. She began to cry, which turned into a fierce weep. They both were crying in earnest.

When the sobs subsided, she pulled away. She wiped her face. He wiped his. And he chuckled. She followed suit, and they laughed together for a couple of minutes.

"When are you leaving?" she said when the laughter stopped.

"Tomorrow."

"Oh," and she nodded. She swallowed. "Well…I guess…"

But she never finished, because he had grabbed her again and was kissing her fiercely. She couldn't think…it had happened so fast. She merely reciprocated. It was glorious.

He had her pressed against the kitchen counter, his hands desperately ravishing her sides, her face, her hips, her breasts…never lingering long, for it was almost too desperate. Her mind reeled, her hands in his hair. On his neck, his shoulders. Squeezing his arms. Part of her wanted to stay like this…never stopping…let his brother come and try to take him from her.

But she placed her hands to his chest, pushing him away. "Sherlock…"

His breath came quick. "What?'

"Stop. You can't…I can't…"

"Can I stay here tonight, Molly?" his forehead leaned against hers. "No sex…I just…I don't want to be apart from you in these last hours."

Oh my god.

"Ok," she whispered.

They held one another all night. And true to his word, no sex. Molly just couldn't handle the thought of it. Too much…much too much…

Occasionally they talked…they kissed one another…he stroked her arm, her side, as she lay with her head on his chest.

They cried, they laughed. But neither slept.

And when the time came from him to leave, she held him close. "Don't forget me."

"I could never…"

"Have Mycroft text me…" she said as before.

He smiled. He kissed her mouth gently. But he didn't confess anything. He couldn't.

* * *

Later that day, Molly was walking into the break room. The television was on. She was carrying a cup of coffee…it had been a long day from having had no sleep.

DID YOU MISS ME?

And the cup crashed to the floor.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock and Molly (man and woman)

His eyes scanned the tarmac where he left John, Mary, and Mycroft. His final words to John still ringing in his ears. He had a hollowness in his mind, a bare spot where his heart had once been. He'd never know their little girl. Never be there for them in any way again. He had made the ultimate sacrifice, and now he was receiving his just desserts.

He had been an impossible git his entire life. He had been deceitful, cruel, selfish. He had, he admitted to himself, allowed himself to care…and then he fell. But prior to his fall, he hadn't realised what he was really, actually, doing. It was later, at Molly's, where he discovered the truth of it, and then he fell once more.

Again and again he thought about it while he was away…and at first it was only John who occupied his thoughts. But slowly, ever so slowly, Molly entered his mind. Her smile, her goodness, her loyalty, her humour. He had taken advantage, not out of cruelty, but out of selfishness. He had, he thought, been more cruel to John than her. But he never took John for granted...he always prized him. Molly, not so much.

He had been selfish in kissing her before he left for two years, but he had stopped anything from progressing further. And for a mad moment in her kitchen that time, he almost didn't. But in his haze of fear following the Fall, he saw her tiny light, and spared her the pain of love making.

Jealousy was what had done it in the end. First, he was jealous of Jim from IT. Then Tom. And he began to realise that she meant more to him than he knew...he felt things for her. Slowly, it became clear. That was why he continued to go to her; he went not only because he knew she would help, but because he wanted to see her, be near her. He had fallen in love with her. It had taken much time to reach that conclusion, but he knew it. And his love, her love had changed him. When he went to her yesterday he had no intention of staying...he merely wanted to honour her steadfast friendship and not just bugger off without so much of a goodbye. He thought that he might hurt her, but it was important that he see her, one last time.

Then she said those words. He was so moved, he couldn't contain himself. She told him, though her actions more often than not betrayed her heart, but then she said them, made it real, and he wept. He wept and he held her for all the times he didn't, he wept for the times he chided her, he ignored her, he took her for granted.

And then he laughed at himself and the irony of the situation. Here he was, facing certain death, having spent his entire life unafraid, untouched, and feelings were to be his undoing. He had murdered someone to spare his best friend's life and marriage. And now, he stood in the kitchen of the only woman he ever loved, never to see her again. No one could have predicted this outcome of complete selflessness and sacrifice.

He was so full, full of sorrow, regret, of relief, that he kissed her. And this time, he kissed Molly for being Molly - not merely because she had offered him comfort and solace, but because he loved her and desired her and because he needed to do it. For him and for her.

That night they had laid in bed together. He held her close, and thought that he would lock this day safe away in his mind, to revisit while gone. They spoke about lots of things. Her childhood and his, her loves and sadness (he offered a few snippets), her fears, her dreams, and his. They laughed at stories he told, at her stories.

They cried.

He kissed her face and her mouth, but never more - he ignored the stirrings he felt in his groin at her touch, and when it became overwhelming, he pulled away. He thought that if they made love, he'd never be able to leave, and leave he must. It was, without a doubt, the single most erotic, most moving, most dear night he ever had had. For they had shared themselves in a way that he had never done before: intellectually, psychologically, spiritually. He now belonged to her, she to him. It mattered but little that they hadn't shared their bodies, despite the fact that he wanted her madly.

And why didn't he profess his love? Because he believed it would either hurt her further, or she would never believe him. So he left that morning, saved by her strength and resolve, and with the knowledge that she was alive and well in the world, for that would be his true source of comfort from that day on.

* * *

"Sir, you have a call."

"What is it?" He said into the mobile.

"I hope you've learned your lesson," Mycroft finished.

The plane landed, and he got out.

"What's going on, Mycroft?"

"It appears that either Moriarty is alive, or someone wants him to be."

He froze, with John and Mary standing next to him.

Molly.

* * *

"Shit!" Molly had made quite a mess.

She left to get a broom and such, all the while in a soft panic. It couldn't be him...he was dead.

Sherlock had died.

Yes, but Jim was dead. Actually dead.

What did this mean to her? For her? Should she go somewhere? Maybe call Mycroft? She was afraid, for Jim was insane. Capable of anything.

Did he know that Sherlock was alive? Know about her friendship with him? Her hands shook as she cleaned up the mess. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, and she sniffed a bit.

After the previous night, she was on the emotional side. She decided that she'd ask Mike if she could clear out a bit early. Things were unsettled in her head…she thought she'd go to the pub, maybe text Mycroft to see if there was anything she should be doing. (ask about Sherlock)

Molly smiled. She knew that she couldn't spend her life wondering about him, but she knew that was likely what she would be doing. She thought idly about whether she would know when he died (a tear as she spoke with Mike, receiving permission to leave). She thought there was a chance that he wouldn't…that he might return. What she knew now was that she'd rather die alone than live a lie with someone else. No one would ever have her heart as Sherlock did, even if he didn't quite reciprocate (he never actually said the actual words).

Molly left and got a coffee at her favorite cafe. Everyone was talking about the Moriarty broadcast. She smiled…she thought that perhaps she should text Mycroft. Maybe he had a plan. Molly Hooper was walking toward her flat, sipping her coffee. She bent her head to rummage through her bag, and everything went black.

* * *

Mycroft's car pulled in front of 221 Baker Street just as John Watson was about to enter. He was watching them from above. Something wasn't right - Mycroft kept shifting his weight and looking toward his right side. The code was not being broken…or something with the idiots at NSY, or perhaps the Prime Minister was giving him a hard time about something or other. At any rate, his brother was uneasy…and he noted that John was reacting to whatever he was saying. He hadn't heard from anyone, but then, everyone believed him to be on a plane. He figured he'd settle things here, then go and get Molly. She would stay at Baker Street…and he smiled. He could watch her here more closely…and then, perhaps…

Sherlock was at the computer, typing furiously.

"John."

"Hi."

He stopped and looked up from the computer. "Something is wrong. You just spoke with Mycroft, something about surveillance, and something is not quite right," he got up from his station. "Mycroft has assured you that everything is fine, but it's not…and you know it. What happened?"

"How do you know all that? I don't have any sauce on my shirt."

"I heard his car, and your mouth is twitching on the left side indicating some sort of turmoil."

"Sit down, Sherlock."

"I don't want to sit down."

"Do it anyway."

"No."

John sighed. "He can't find Molly."

He swayed a bit. He closed his eyes. He drew his breath. "What do you mean, he can't find Molly?"

"She went missing, about an hour ago now," and he looked at his friend steadily. "Sherlock?"

He opened his eyes. He went to his chair, drew it out, and touched the armrest. Slowly, he lowered himself into the seat.

"Right. I'll make tea."

And Sherlock Holmes wrote an email, steepled his fingers under his chin, and stared at the screen.

* * *

God, her head hurt. Where on earth was she? It was dark. Very. She was laying on some sort of floor. Molly tried to get up, but she was fixed to the floor…and then she noticed that her arms were tied to the floor, and her wrists hurt. Her legs, tied, and her ankles hurt. What the hell was going on. She attempted to ascertain what had happened to cause her to be in this predicament. She had gotten coffee…nothing strange…she had asked Mike of she could leave early…she saw the telly…was Jim here? Keeping her? Was she to be a hostage? Did he know about her and Sherlock?

She began to panic, her breath came quick. Calm down, Molly Hooper. Assess the situation. She was tied to the floor and it was dark. The floor appeared to be dirt, and she grabbed a handful of earth to affirm it. Yes. Ok. First things first, untie your hands.

* * *

He came out of it…his mind palace…and he looked around.

"How long?"

John came running in. "Sherlock?"

"How long have I been gone?"

John knew what he was referring to. "About 8 hours."

Eight hours. That was quite a long while. He checked his email, and there it was. He smiled.

In a flash, John handed him a cup of coffee. "So…find anything?"

"Yep," he said, taking a sip. "How's Mary?"

"How's Mary?"

"I believe I've made mention of your irritating habit of repeating my words. Please stop. How is Mary?"

John Watson sighed. Despite being lovesick, he still was a great git. "She's fine. She's worried about Molly."

Sherlock got up. "She doesn't know Molly."

"No. It's called empathy, Sherlock."

He waved his hand distractedly and went to the kitchen.

John got up. "Have you figured anything out?"

"Yeeess."

"Are you worried?"

No answer.

"Sherlock, I know that you care about Molly. Everyone does. In fact, everyone has for quite a long while…you have to be hurting."

His eyes shot up from the table. "Who is this everyone you keep referencing? What do they know about it?" He ran his fingers through his hair. "Of course I care about Molly, and of course I am concerned," he swallowed. He was fiddling with things, attempting, it would seem, to begin an experiment.

"Sherlock…if you are concerned…why are we just waiting here? Why aren't we looking for her?"

He sighed. "Because I know where she is…and she will be back here within an hour."

* * *

She only needed to get to her pocket…she recalled having slipped an instrument in there earlier, and in her haste to leave work, hadn't put it away. She began to twist her right hand (it hurt, badly) in an effort to free it. She had been doing so for what seemed like ages…twist twist, crack (did she break it? no, she ascertained, but likely sprained. She would need to hurry before it swelled too much)…there! And her hand wriggled free. She cut the rope with her scalpel and sat upright.

Just then, a door was heard opening, and she quickly laid back down. It was dark, very dark, her captor would never see that her hands were free. She felt him near her, he bent down…any second now…his breath came close…NOW Molly! And she took her weapon, dug it into his face. He screamed…and she took it out…and struck again…and again…until he lay on the floor, lifeless.

She moved to her feet, quickly as she could, for she knew not if this person had acted alone. It didn't sound like Jim, so he might be lurking somewhere. It hurt to get up. Her ankles were very sore, and her wrist smarted terribly. Her head felt heavy as she slowly opened the door.

* * *

An hour had passed, and no Molly. He texted his brother, Lestrade. Had he made an error? Possible, but not likely.

"Get Mary, John."

"Why?"

"Just do it. Have her meet me at NSY in 20 minutes." He grabbed his coat and took off.

"Lestrade, is there some sort of exam you have your deputies take to determine their ineptitude, and then you hire the one with the lowest score?"

DI Lestrade was sighing heavily. Sometimes he wished the git would've stayed dead. "Sherlock, we are doing everything we can…"

"Did you or did you not go to that address I provided?"

"We hit a snag."

"WHO ARE THESE MORONS, LESTRADE?"

Mary Watson entered with her husband.

"Where is Molly?" she asked. "I thought…"

"No. One of your people took her…Magnussen had arranged it. Blackmail, obviously. Which of your former colleagues was it?"

John stood confused. "So…it isn't Moriarty?"

"No," replied Sherlock. "His work is much more theatrical. No…this was dirty…this was Magnussen."

Mary's eyes shifted. "Alright…I suppose…I suppose you're probably right."

"Of course I am."

"Then here…I'll text you the two likely people."

They arrived at the first house Mary had indicated. Sherlock jumped from the car, running in. The man was shocked to see the commotion...not him. The email reply had been a fake, not shocking, really. He was merely hoping… He ran his fingers through his hair.

Next address. He walked into the empty house. This was it. Into the kitchen…someone had left in a hurry…were they taking Molly somewhere else? The basement door was ajar, he walked downstairs. A little room was in the corner. Sherlock walked in, and found the dead body laying on the floor in a pool of blood.

"John! Lestrade! Down here!"

They were outside fraught with worry when the announcement came over the radio: WE HAVE A WOMAN HERE SHE'S INJURED TAKING HER TO BART'S FOR EVALUATION

_ Molly,_ his heart whispered.

The cab ride was dreadful. It was late. It had been a hideous day. After such a brilliant night previously, to have this much emotion and fear and dread, Sherlock was absolutely exhausted.

"You alright?" John Watson was looking at his dear friend.

"Hmmm."

"Tired, then?"

"Very."

"What will you do?"

"Well…I imagine a nice bath is in order."

He laughed. "No…I mean…about Molly."

"I know."

"So…what will you do?"

"I already told you, John. A nice bath is in order."

"Rrrright. But…"

Sherlock looked at John. "I don't know. So much has happened…just in 24 hours…I'm afraid for her and what it would mean if we were…to…" his voice trailed off.

"She loves you."

"Yeesss."

"And you love her."

No answer.

"Come on, Sherlock! You love her! Have now for ages. Why can't you just admit it?"

He sighed and turned his gaze back to the window. "Because admitting it makes it real. Making it real means I can't go back. Not going back means she will always be in danger, and I don't know if I can handle that."

"Sorry, mate. You already can't go back. Might as well enjoy what you can."

They arrived at Bart's and John asked if he wanted him to stay. Yes. For a moment.

Sherlock noted the quiver in his hands, the lump in his throat, the frantic beat of his heart. She very likely didn't realize that he was still here, and he didn't want to shock her in her fragile state.

They discovered that she was in the triage unit, only minor injuries.

"John…can you…go in? Tell her I'm here? She probably doesn't know I never left."

"Yeah. I can do that," he touched his friend's arm, and Sherlock waited outside.

* * *

Molly was sitting up. Her head hurt so bad. Her wrist was sore. She was hungry, exhausted, her head was spinning. They said that she would be released soon. Could anyone come and get her? No. She lived alone. A friend, then? No. No one to speak of. They would call her a cab. But her handbag…it…she never found it…Don't worry. She was an employee who had just suffered trauma. It would be taken care of.

There were no tears left. None could be summoned to give her body release. She was paralyzed by her emotion, so she expressed none. She had nearly died…yes, she had been brave. Yes, that she escaped was exceptional. But what did she escape for? She was so alone. She had no one in this world who cared enough for her to look. Is this what her life held? Fear of capture for her association with a man who was no longer in the country? Would probably be dead within a year?

Well, she reflected. Certainly not boring. But ulcer-inducing to be sure.

A soft knock came from the door.

"Yes?" she called out.

"Hi, Molly," John said, entering the room.

"John! What are you doing here?"

"We were looking for you."

"Oh…I didn't know."

"How are you feeling?"

"Well," she smiled. "I've had…ah…better days, you might say."

"Yeah…" he laughed. "I should hope so."

She played with the blanket, looked down. "So. Thanks, for…trying to find me."

"Didn't need our help in the end, though. I had no idea you were such a bad ass, Molly."

She giggled. "Right…"bad ass"…not really."

"Are you up for any visitors?"

Molly looked up confused. "Why? Does Greg need a statement? I gave one at NSY…"

"No…no. Molly…how to put this….?"

"You're doing a piss poor job, John Watson. I'll take over. Really, it was a simple request," and Sherlock Holmes entered the room.

Molly's mouth fell open. Her breathing stopped, her eyes, unbidden and heretofore quite dry, spilled with tears.

"Hello, Molly," said he, his face fixed to hers.

And John left the room unnoticed.


	7. Chapter 7

Molly and Sherlock (love and sex)

"Dad, how did you know you were in love with Mum?"

Molly's dad looked at her lovingly. She always loved her dad, and valued the advice he would give her. He had a certain eloquence in his manner and speech, and Molly was always held rapt when he would offer her his musings.

"Molly, there's something you should know about love. It is never perfect, and it isn't perfect because people aren't perfect. We all of us have a touch of the divine and a spark of the grotesque which resides in us. No human heart can withstand the pull of either…it is only when you find someone who can mesh the two together for you, who can love both sides…and you love both of their's in equal measure, that love happens. It's a wonderful dance of the human condition. Nothing is more godlike than love…nothing more animalistic than sex. But they are both beautiful, and necessary for life."

"Yes, but, how do you KNOW?"

He smiled. "One day, sometimes after ten minutes, sometimes after many years, you find that you cannot do without them. And then you know."

* * *

He led her up the stairs to 221B, guiding her with his hand holding hers. They hadn't spoken much, as they were both very tired. She stood in the sitting room, he went to boil a kettle. Her wrist was wrapped in a bandage, and she was holding the pain medication. She was told to take it easy for a couple of days, as she was concussed. Molly heard the water being turned on in the bathroom, but she still didn't move.

A moment later, she felt herself being led to the bathroom. Sherlock began to undress her. She stood there, rather avoiding his gaze, not quite realizing that he wasn't looking at her face. A moment later, she was naked, and he helped her into the tub with warm water.

He undid the bandage, and took a pitcher from behind him. He rolled up his sleeves and slowly dumped the water on her head. He then reached for the shampoo, and washed her hair, massaging her scalp gently. It was meticulous and gentle, the way he washed her; her hair, her back, her body. And though there was nothing sexual in his intent, there was something sensual in the delivery. Finally, he rinsed her, and left her there a moment to see to their tea.

Molly was sitting, staring at the wall opposite…so many emotions…relief being the strongest. Relief that she persevered and escaped, and relief that Sherlock was here and alive.

He came in with a towel.

"Can you stand?"

She nodded, and got up. He wrapped the towel around her, and helped her out of the tub.

"I put your things in the bedroom…the tea is ready. Do you need help?" (they had stopped at her flat to gather things and feed Toby)

She shook her head and smiled.

"I'll wait for you in the sitting room, and then we can re-wrap your bandage," and he left.

Sherlock set the tea things and made a fire. He went to the computer and began writing to his Mum indicating that he was fine, please call Mycroft. Molly reemerged, looking a bit better, and sat in John's chair. She picked up her tea.

"So…you're back," and she smiled.

"I am, yes."

"Not leaving, then?"

"Nope."

She nodded. "What does that mean?"

"It means…well. That I'm staying. In London. Moriarty is here, or someone, and Mycroft wishes me to slay his dragon."

"Will you be sent off once that's done?"

"No…I don't…think so."

Molly nodded once more. "Where does that leave us, then?"

"Us?"

Shit. "Yeah…I mean…things are different now, aren't they? Or was that all for comfort?"

Sherlock had been standing by the window fiddling with his violin. "You've observed, I'm sure, that ridiculous smiley-face on my wall."

Molly looked at said face. "Of course."

He scratched his back with his bow, looking down. He then put down the instrument, still holding the bow, and sat in his chair opposite her. He crossed his legs. "That, Molly, is you."

"Me?" she smiled crookedly.

"Indeed, yes."

"Well…you have many talents, Sherlock, but visual arts is not among them," and she laughed.

He returned her smile and raised an eyebrow. "I spray painted that smiley-face after I overheard a conversation you were having with one of your co-workers about a certain "Jim." I came home with my severed head, put it in the refrigerator, and spray-painted your smile on my wall."

"Hang on. And then you shot it. There are bullet-holes there…"

"Yep. I shot it."

Molly looked at him confusedly.

He took his bow and pointed it at the wall. "That was my outlet for my intense jealousy. I hadn't of course, known what it was about the situation that made me so blind with jealousy…I suppose…I was afraid of the answer."

"Oh."

"You see, Molly, this thing," he used his bow to gesticulate the enormity of this thing, "has been around for years. I have always cared about you, to a greater or lesser extent…and it was, I suppose…my absence that made that more real…more aware…more…" and he stopped.

Molly was staring at him in disbelief. "All this time? All that time…that was quite a while ago…and I tortured myself…believing that you'd never care…"

He put the bow down and knelt in front of her. He placed his hands on her knees. "It's my turn now. I will take care of you…just as you have always taken care of me. You are so brave, Molly…and I'm so in awe of what you did…I believe that part of me always feared that somehow your association with me would put you in danger. I see now that I never needed to concern myself. You are an able woman, capable of taking care of herself."

She smiled. "We both are murderers. On equal footing now."

"Not quite…" and he leaned in, and kissed her mouth. He ran his hands up to her face, and deepened the kiss, feeling her respond in kind.

Sherlock stopped abruptly and stood, went over to the sofa.

"What's wrong?"

He cleared his throat. "You need to take things easy, they said…I cannot risk hurting you."

Molly nodded. "Can you help me with the bandage?"

He went over to her and wrapped her wrist tenderly. When her wrist was wrapped and her pain meds taken, Molly indicated that she was quite sleepy.

She got up and went to Sherlock's bedroom and laid down. She fell asleep immediately, and dreamed of churches, and monsters, jabberwockies, and dragons, saints, trees, children, and a riding crop.

When Molly woke, she was alone. Noises filled her ears, and she got up. Sherlock was in the kitchen, and he was cooking.

"You cook?"

"Occasionally," and he handed her some coffee.

"Any good at it?"

"Fair," he said. He put a plate down in front of her.

She looked at it with a hint of skepticism.

"What?"

"Hmmm…dunno. You've never served me food before…"

"No. But I fail to see a problem with it."

"The problem is, is you've drugged John."

He was affronted. "You're recovering from illness and injury! I'd never…"

"No?"

And he took her fork, scooped up a bit of egg, and ate it. "Happy?"

"I suppose so," and Molly tucked in. "What will we do today? Have you any leads on Moriarty?"

"No…" he began looking at the Times. "I've told Mycroft and Lestrade that I will be unavailable for the next few days."

"Aren't you concerned at all?"

"Not really."

"But…your brother…he stopped you from leaving for precisely this purpose…shouldn't you…"

He put the paper down. "No. Everything is fine. Moriarty, or whoever it is won't be doing anything in the foreseeable future. I know him and his ways quite well," he paused. "Let's play some games," and he rose from the table to retrieve his games from the wardrobe.

* * *

It had been three days, and Molly's wounds were healing nicely. Her wrist wasn't nearly as sore, her head no longer hurt, and she felt rested and stronger. She insisted that she clean up the dinner that she had made for them, and was in the kitchen doing just that.

Sherlock was watching her as she worked, and his mind drifted back to that night before he left, after the Fall. He had had a need to be near her as she engaged in such soothing normalcy. He thought about the kiss he had given her, and how very different he felt now from how he felt then.

He went up to her, and stood next to her. Molly looked up and smiled. She began to turn back to the dishes. He took her arm, and pulled her toward him. He swallowed, and leaned into her, kissing her gently on her mouth. Molly's hands went up to his face, his hair, pulling him closer and with some force. His hands ran down her body, caressed her backside, and went back up again. He pulled away a moment.

"How is your head?"

"Fine," she breathed.

"Your ankles?"

"Good."

"Your wrists?"

"Better."

He took her then to his bedroom, and shut the door. Molly stood there, and Sherlock leaned against the closed door looking at her. She swallowed hard…he had an intensity in his look…

In one fluid stride he was at her, and she squealed in surprise. He took off his tee shirt, and lead her to the bed. Molly sat at the edge, her back toward him as he undressed.

From behind her his hands lifted up her shirt, and off went her bra, his hands coming up and cupping her breasts. He nuzzled her neck, and glided her back onto the pillow. He took off her pants, and held her legs apart with his body, all the while kissing her stomach, working his way up eagerly to her mouth.

"Are you ok?"

She nodded and held his face in her hands. He entered her, and stopped moving.

Ten years, maybe longer, since he had had intercourse. He groaned. He needed to stop, or he might just climax there…

"Sherlock?"

"Shhh…don't move," he whispered in her ear.

How she felt, he couldn't say. Warm, tight, wet, and something…something else…she fit him like a glove…and her moan when he had entered had driven him to the edge.

His face was against her neck… He couldn't have her not enjoy this, what with the intense pleasure he was having in mere seconds. His right hand roamed down her body, and found her clitoris…gently he massaged it, and he began to move once more. She cried, she came in his hand, and he immediately followed suit.

He leaned his forehead against hers, and swallowed. He rolled off of her, and began to laugh.

"Intercourse is a rather funny thing, isn't it?" he asked.

"I never thought about it that way, but yeah. I guess it is…" and Molly joined him in his laughter. "How long had it been since you…you know."

"About ten years, I think."

"Wow."

"Yes. But…there was pornography."

"A poor substitute."

"Only because I was missing out on you, Molly," he looked at her crookedly, eyebrow arched, and she burst into laughter, and hit his arm.

* * *

The next morning dawned a pretty orange, and they were sitting together at the kitchen table, like any couple, having their coffee.

"I need to get back and feed poor Toby. It's been days."

"I've been going to feed him at night while you are asleep."

Molly's mouth hung open. "You have?! Oh, Sherlock, thank you!"

He smiled and winked at her, returning to his paper. Molly needed to tell him again how much she loved him, for surely her depth of feeling had grown these past few days…though how that was possible, she hardly knew.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm."

She took the paper down with her hand so that she could see his face. "Thank you, for taking care of me. I couldn't have done it without you."

"Of course."

"So…I'll need to go home."

"If you like."

"I…um…" her eyes fell and her fingers twisted together nervously. Why was she acting thus? Because he wasn't leaving…because she would have to live with him now, knowing that he knew that she was madly in love with him. "I love you…so much. And I hope that this…thing doesn't go away."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well…I mean…I was thinking that now…you know…maybe you thought this was just a fling, but it isn't, not for me. I'm not sure what you want to do…"

He put the paper down and took her hand in his."Molly Hooper, what the hell are you on about? Do you honestly think that this was a fling for me? How can you possibly think that…even for a minute?"

"I was trying to give you an out."

"An out."

"Yeah…" "For god's sake. Don't you realize how incredibly difficult all of this has been for me? I have never, ever, in all my life, felt this way about anyone. I'm in love with you Molly, and I…I…" his voice trailed as he recognized what just escaped his mouth. He swallowed. "Yes. I'm in love with you."

"Golly," she said.

"But if you ever say golly again I shall consider a full retraction of said declaration."

She laughed with him that morning, and for many mornings thereafter. And Molly Hooper thought that though this was a most unexpected ending to a long story in the making, she couldn't have wished for a happier one. She and Sherlock, were, when it was all said and done, merely human - two people lucky enough to have experienced the spark of the divine in one another, and engage in the grotesque with startling regularity.

And they never changed the wallpaper in the sitting room.


End file.
